On those drawn out summer evenings, all manner of characters would fill the coffee shops and spill outside. An interesting cross section of society would be provided for anyone willing to sit and watch, for an hour or two atleast. This particular evening will always stand out for me as representative of those carefree folly filled evenings. I was sat alone, with a copy of the evening news and an espresso across the street from a boisterous coffee shop which remained opened deep into the evening, long after others were closed. I often sat and watched people in those early few months, Id decided against socialising with colleagues. I would go to great lengths to prearranged fictitious plans and engagements in order so that I could sit alone each evening, pleasing myself. It's always far easier to enjoy food alone, without any distractions. After considering my options I settled for a steak, and a glass of wine. The waiter seemingly unconcerned failed to take note as I gave my order, with a shrug of his head he returned to the kitchen inside to place the order. The cafe I watched was perched almost perfectly across the street from the train station. As commuters and young couples in love poured out of the station, and onto the bright expanse which was the street before them. The popularity of this particular cafe is hard to convey correctly, it's frantic nature remained even on the bleakest of midwinter evenings. Now though months of bread and water were long gone, as seasonal waiters hurried arms filled will all manner of snacks and drinks.  All manner of agricultural workers would congregate in early march, eager to snap up work in the best hotels and cafes thus ensuring a healthy wage and generous tips. The waiters from the mountains always stood out. It was as if they retained the innocence of there previous surroundings, smiling all coy when taking orders from female customers. They retained the physical attributes of the mountains which they had left, towering above others and maintaining a mystique which often meant they would return in November with wives and child aswell.




By now it was half past eight atleast, and I had finished my steak and wine. The traffic was in the process of slowing down, although it was not uncommon here for traffic jams to form at any hour of the evening. Car horns echoed and ricocheted off old architecture which gave an impression of immense movement all around.  The owner was a beast of a man standing six foot high atleast, with a beard which gave away his rugged beginnings. It was impossible to estimate his origin correctly, Id always imagined he was from somewhere in Northern Europe although by now I had learnt that assumptions were the preserve of fools. He could most often be found pacing up and down the pavement adjacent to his cafe, smoking his camel blue cigarettes and staring deep into the night sky. As if preoccupied with some great moral dilemma this could go on for hours of end, without him breathing a word to anyone.  Under a great mane of curly brown hair, lay the most enthralling blue eyes imaginable. They had a softness which would not seem out of place upon the face of some Parisian muse. Although I must confess when first confronted with this gentleman an his almost childlike appearance, I was adamant I had him figured. He seemed the kind of man who blundered through life, although successful still seemed to be scraping an unenviable existence for himself.

By now I had stuck around long enough to get some feel for the pitter patter of life in just such a place. The transient nature of the customers ensured a bravado unseen in any old small town watering hole, women driven wild by spontaneous desire stared sultry at the mysterious visitors.
A crew of sailors who had no doubt been granted shore leave, and were soaking up the atmosphere just across the road from me. They could have been from any South American nation, or Spain. It really was impossible to tell from my distance, a few had clearly cultivated moustaches whilst at sea. It was common for sea faring people's to grow ****** hair in such a manner. Almost as if by magic, a story told by someone without a beard holds subtle undertones of irrelevance. I had learned this over the many months I had spent smoking and talking to locals, and travellers alike. I must confess I had fallen hook line and sinker, I was currently locked in the process of cursing my genetics and dreaming of a more rugged appeal.

By now the black coffees had petered out, and had been replaced by glasses and in some cases bottles of what I can only assume was Spanish red wine. The noise had steadily increased as the drinks flowed, and the crowd of sailors had gradually grown more and more boisterous in there escapades . A few feet away the manager stared intently at the revellers, as if the warn them without words of being too careless in a foreign city. The ever present owner done very little to deter the actions of the pack, who's numbers by now had been swelled from another dozen or so sailors who happened to be walking in the right direction.  The sailors leered shamelessly at the local women, whilst the more forward of them made there own advances. Still the manager stood smoking and staring as if to catch the sight of one of them. Now to the wary eyes of a man returned from a long voyage this would seem like a place, where desire became a priority above all else. This would be an entirely accurate assumption although, if the surface was scratched significantly an underbelly of immorality could be found. For the sailors though, whom were just passing through unlikely to ever return this mattered very little. There only concern was draining themselves on some unsuspecting women, or if so required a *******.

It's hard to say exactly how the altercation was initiated, although I suspect the cat calls of a few sailors had pushed one local over the edge. Whilst the promise of conflict ensured a crowd would gather the bar owner remained just away from the ruckus as if picking his moment. The sailors numbered in 20 or so, and fuelled by red wine and continental beer seemed more than willing to put up a fight. A waiter who had tried to act as mediator between the parties had given up, and left for the roadside and had lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes atleast it looked as though the scuffle would be forgotten and laughed about over eggs at breakfast. There was a barrage of shouting and pulling as the locals slowly lost their temper. By now many people had stopped to stare at the spectacle, this is where I must confess things got really strange. As I have previously stated I have no real idea what brought all of this on, that is to say I have no idea what set the process in motion. It was a well known fact that in times of violence the locals would protect each other with a ferocity and loyalty which could see the most able bodied men come unstuck. I had ordered myself a cream cake, and was skimming through the news from London when I heard a blood chilling yell. I spied the previously placid manager leaving the door which lead to his apartment above the cafe. With the confidence of a man without obligation he sauntered toward the group of sailors. I did not see the knife, I must confess I assumed this old man would take quite a beating at the hands of these sailors. Oh I was wrong, a young sailor fell to the ground silent, as his green shirt went claret with blood. In disbelief his comrades stood around, unsure exactly what to do. The crowd assembled gasped as if to share collective disbelief, the manager had managed to slip off somewhere without provoking any attention. Over the next twenty five minutes an ambulance arrived although I feel even the paramedics knew that this was more an exercise in keeping up appearances than saving any lives. They surely knew that there was very little they could do for this poor boy away from home. Police officers milled around, It was safe to say the bar owner would never be brought to anything like justice for this although, the general consensus was that anyone who got stabbed more than likely deserved it in someway or another. As for the manager  he had long been bundled into the back of some old pre war car and taken far beyond the cries and disdain of world weary sailors. No doubt to reappear a week or so later.

words so clever could not hide this blundered heart
two halves in being when we are apart
these words so carefully crafted [turn and spill] become my art

they help me mend my
broken
broken
heart

this canvas: *****, tattered

just paint me lavender
and find me there after

Is there anything more wonderful
Then being part of the poet’s corner?
Lucky am I to be a poetry lover!
A romance novelist used poetry to ponder
A story that changes and transforms
One’s heart.  Is there anything more wonderful?
Joining a poetry site, I blundered
My way to writing a poem, oh what torture!
But lucky am I to be a poetry lover.
Many offered their support, allowing me to discover
My path and slowly my writing became stronger.
Is there anything more wonderful?
So many inspired awe and wonder,
Giving me strength to claim my own corner,
Justifying my becoming a poetry lover.
To those who offered encouragement so tender
I offer my thanks and give honor.
Is there anything more wonderful
Than becoming a poetry lover?*

Kelly Rose
December 29, 2015

This writing might be a little twisted it’s just where I am I’m in a Nott in my soul and in my physical body
Knees that feel like the little bones are breaking then the other night I did the big no no I worked until
Four in the morning I got up before it was just my toes that had that numb feeling like stone
Well now the whole feet are in this shape so Neoprathy goes wild but the piece was important and so is
This one I was doing a job in California the rescission threw me out to do work of any kind it was like we
Followed the people that did bad jobs basically ripping people off but as I went up to the house this
Elderly lady came around the side of the house she had this tape and gauze around her neck what she
Said next had me riveted she was quiet but trembled when she said they surgically cut my throat and
Tomorrow they have to cut the other side she was so frail and truly had fear with torment I just
Blundered up on this horror that was controlling her life friend we all are going to face this one day I’m
Disturbed by the report of Sharon Osborne having to have a double mastectomy that she had done as a
Safe guard from getting breast cancer because she has the gene that causes breast cancer fear I know
She has a great family a support system that is stellar but in private moments the fear strikes deep I
wrote a piece on breast cancer I’m going to add it on to this piece I guess I’m rattled and I’m trying in my
Flaying way to set up a safe guard against this kind of terror I ran this gambit with my cousin and brother
In -law my cousin I would consider a pretty tough customer twenty two years he was the sheriff of a
Small town but you have to run back in his life as a teenager he said this after being raised in a Christian
Home as soon as I get eighteen I’m out of here he kept his word for some thirty years he never came
Around the church he lived it up smoked like a fiend had to have open heart surgery the black picture
Of his life he took the brush out of the saviors hand now he lived the good life decent upright but he did
Those things that brought trouble on top of trouble the next thing wasn’t his fault but a guy trying to run
From one town to this town without brakes and get them fixed there he ran into my cousin’s police
Cruiser rear ended him ultimately from injuries sustained he had to give up his job he had multiple
Operations that done nothing to relieve the pain he faced what the lady did in California they had to cut
His neck open in the back clear across to do a procedure in the midst of all of this he was struck with
Leukemia he stood in church and said he was scared they did the cell implant from his brother but he
Came to a prayer meeting not a church night and he made his way to an old fashioned altar broke
Through to God he found the fountain that ever sustains and gives life the following church night he
Stood up and said I am not afraid anymore and I have had severe pain for seven years and had to take
Powerful pain killers tonight I am pain free at the altar all of those years of mistakes were cleaned and
His feet were now centered on the paths that lead to glory all seemed to being going well he was just
In the hospital for routine help then they entered the room and said were sorry you are filled with
infection there is nothing we can do God called him home he died three days later but he found the
only answer for fear and torment someone needs this

Kylie
A song bird with a broken wing the cancer like the archer’s arrow pierced the breast the spirit widens
Under storm laden skies from inward hush and silence an opening umbrella of prayer provides a shield
The buffeted retreats to sheltering rocks and finds the hidden stream within depths blessed bindings
In warmest recesses your steps guided by the unseen over and through this dark passing new findings
With down cast eyes you continue the dark streets the home of the sick and the broken pain unspoken
You came upon these deep downward steeps from the flood lights and euphoric accolades of fame
Before your lyrical melodies were joyful expressive now will carry weighty and knowing sterling acclaim
Mined from troubles hard unrelenting walls finally the richest golden ore through your feelings pour
A little ease by the mystical dreams when sleep restores still withdrawn faces in the moonlight so pale
For a time at heaven you rail to costly you barter all that is thine to own backed by a great pink brigade
You fight with unstoppable courage you lead the march you find ground unvisited you go on without fail
Beaconing to legions behind encouraging you carry the burning torch showing the way through the dark
This my only desire I stand in this human body frail knowing my limitations but from the fight I call you
Don’t be afraid and never say give up to many are depending your touch glorious women you defend
Say in song the mystery you found in a city all alone you met sisters not age defined all filled with youth
In your face I see the unexplainable the untraceable a strength born from conflict a secret knowing
This is dedicated to Kylie Minouge Melissa Eatheridge and all breast cancer survivors

The summer I interned in New York, I fell in love with someone I'd only seen from a balcony window.

I'd fallen in love with strangers before, on buses and in lines, watching their shoulders straighten and their faces grimace in half-sunlight. I fell in love with these people the way you could fall in love with a poem, finding personality in the way that their eyes flicker nervously from left to right, tiny instances where their stanzas throw you into a daze. But this time was different. For once, I wished to know a stranger without the brim of my sunglasses, for once I felt something when I knew I'd never see him again.

His apartment was cluttered, bottles of water and the empty cans of energy drinks piled in a corner where a conscious person would have fit them in a bin. There were clothes on the floor, and although I knew his high rise box was laid out just as mine, he must have used the expected closet space for something else - his clothes were everywhere, crumpled in heaps on the floor that were too erratically placed to not have some sort of lingering system. Posters of people were taped to the wall, covering the matte eggshell white, edges falling occasionally to show signs that he wouldn’t always live there. I hoped that if he ever owned a home, that those staring portraits would be stapled or pasted thick to his walls, just because he would be the sort of person who wouldn’t change his mind about what he liked or what he wanted.

I would watch him from the same eggshell white room of mine, with nothing on the walls and not a scrap of anything on the floor. From my blow up mattress to my suitcase of clothes, kitchen stocked of single servings and a solitary set of dishware. I had no curtains and no carpets, no television or pictures of friends huddled in an unexpected embrace. For all anyone knew, I could have been squatting. I would look out at him from the window spanning the entire north facing wall, aware that if he ever looked out, if his eyes ever darted south, he would see me cross legged on the tiled marble floor, hovering over an overheated laptop and cardboard coffee.

I would get home at seven forty-five, shower in the New York water that tasted like dust and gin, and towel off, walking to the balcony. He, just like I, had a long, narrow balcony spanning about four feet on the right edge of his loft, and I would lean on the edge of the concrete slab, smelling the foul city air, taxi music floating from the lumpy yellow marsh below. That was when he would unlock his door suddenly, sometime between eight and eight-ten. He would step with his entire body and move into his crowded room and stand still for a moment, as if to collect himself; restrain from tearing faces off the walls and pummeling fabric into the floor. Sometimes he'd shut the door closed with a twitch of his foot, untying the half apron around his waist with one hand and pulling the red tie strapped flat onto a black dress shirt loose with the other. Once, he did all that in succession and proceeded to slide against the shut door until he hit the ground, falling into himself like a dropped jack's ladder and rubbing his fingers from his jawline to his eyes, up into his hair and back over.

But most of the time, he would just force off his shoes, never untying the laces, and move to the balcony just as I did. He would go out to the balcony too, but he would always keep going, moving to sit on the edge of the short wall, socked feet dangling over the city. His legs would be splayed wide, hands placed right in front of him, flat on the ledge. He would look down at the golden sea below, and when he was done with it, spit a flickering cigarette into the glittering bank.

He would also smoke when he woke up. He got up at six, like clockwork, and would stumble back out into the smogged pilot's seat in a plaid bathrobe, hazy faced and staring down. I don’t think he was ever late. He would get dressed slowly and fix himself in the mirror for a good half hour at the left of his room, until finally turning around just to watch the door for a moment. Sometimes I could swear that he watched for so long that he must have thought it would up and race away.

He slept with the lights on. He never came home late. He didn’t go out at night, never blundered in at two in the morning with a lithe model girl, long hair framing icicle eyes. On weekends he would sleep all day, rising every few hours to go back on the edge of his balcony and smoke. He would stare at the faces on his walls, the callouses on his palms, the murmur below; but never, ever at the empty loft across the way, dotted with a blue plastic bed and a speck of a person.

I left New York in September, on a red eye flight vastly cheaper than the rest. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste into the front pocket of my luggage, squeezed the air out of my mattress, and left. I hadn't left a trace in that home of mine, and it didn’t leave any on me either. When I left New York, I felt nothing. It was almost like I had never set foot in the city, forgetting to socialize with the locals the way someone could leave their hat at a bar.

I never knew if the man across the canyon hated coming home to a loft like I did. I wondered if it bothered him too, the lack of walls or rooms to compartmentalize the space. I wondered if he didn’t like to eat at home, if he felt sick when he watched the sunrise. I wondered if when he looked at the tidepooled city, if he also saw salvation. If he wondered every day from eight to eight-ten about what a dangly thing of a human would seem like to the loft across if it was spit from the edge of a narrow, four foot balcony.

If an orchid wished and wondered,
as a merchant slipped and blundered,
and from his pack was sundered
a genie's magic lamp...

and if this flower's dream,
was to know what it would mean,
to live life as human being,
as her petals brushed this lamp...

and our genie had desired,
to render wishes sired,
for now, no longer mired,
her having freed him of the lamp...

and if our genie was required,

to match to whom inquired,
by her beauty, so inspired,
he would make this flower

you

I was a fool, once.
A lovely one,
a romantic fool.

I thought that
I was her world,
only world,
of all pieces of the broken soul she was.
but sadly enough, I wasn't.

Wise men says;
only fools rush in,
yes, I admit that.

But you can't make the same mistake twice,
the second mistake
is not an err,
it is a choice.

To err is human,
to forgive, divine.

I rather live by
"To improve is to change;
to be perfect is to change often."

I heeded that you are married
no attribution against you
I the one to rebuke
I could've been a man sufficiently

when you said: man up
I became less a man you yenned
I was dark to scope your worst of love
I blundered to enroll, only love is to rescue

I exclusively thought you had a disease
that you can't breathe in general
though I am envious, but I still say:
God bless you and your remedy

He should be me to rescue you
But I was dark to cognize
affection is the only thing you need to meliorate
I urge I could just turn back the hands of time

Began a fashionable living with you
Instantly that I cognize, you are a love patient
I'll man up, I'll provide sufficiently
I'll satisfy your breathe

Just so, I cognize
you are mated to him
He's better than me, better than anyone else
In him you belong, stay blessed.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
  Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
  Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging and army, while
  All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
  Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
  Not the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
  Left of the six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
  All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
  Noble Six Hundred!

Passionate love,
How had they managed it?
A flask of bourbon
Was this blundered love affair

I once had a small purple vase.
It was almost a year old.
But I remembered how my ex and I blundered
And all of his things had to go.

I gave away his sweatshirt
His shorts and shirts got burned
And the teddy bear he gave me
Was torn apart by the people who mean most to me.

He gave me a purple vase.
It was wrapped pretty in a bow
Once it had living flowers
But now I had to let it go

I went outside with my true family
And recorded my final blow
Of shattering the vase
On the ground below

I felt the ricochet
Of a piece run astray
And my baby exclamed to me
That I cut myself indeed

And thats when I realized
How my last relationship was really through
Because if I cut my head with the other one
He wouldn't have held my hand to help me
He would have let me do it on my own
And not even checked on me
I know this for sure
Because it happened once before

I feel free now for sure
That all his things are out my home
And once I see my baby's things replace them
It becomes the final bow

For once I see no remnance of him
I think I'll truely feel clean
Once my forehead heals
And memories repress
I'll finally be able
To fully put him to rest

'Beds to the front of them,
Beds to the right of them,
Beds to the left of them,
Nobody blundered.
Beamed at by hungry souls,
Screamed at with brimming bowls,
Steamed at by army rolls,
Buttered and sundered.
With coffee not cannon plied,
Each must be satisfied,
Whether they lived or died;
All the men wondered.'

(Please Read the note at the bottom)
Desert thy land, lay waste to haven
Spread thy sorrow, hath not to save him
Keep to willow with sunlight pourn
To mild temptation, mild scorn.

Keep she beauty to dusk by horse
Laying down to things by force
Stragling victor selfless mind
Keep to you hath truth hath lied.

By crowd by storm, stream agony pride
Thy land be beut for non to side
To side with hatred, iron blade
To mate and bring yet nothing fade.

She whispers deadly night to dark
Seeping mind of man to spark
Keeping kings and fellow courtly
Stranger too by fire nightly.

And taketh she to highest land
For mighty justice lays thy hand
For she hath strewn for kingdoms come
And taketh non, but frighten some.

The day of dawn, sun rise, sun set
To we thine preach to no regret
King be praised, devil blundered
Simple tricks to thy hath sundered.

Keep to crop to peasant prowl
Marking down thy land to dowl
Father pray to thine above
Graceful metaphoric love.

Final night be cold and dreary
Sight like eagle, keep to query
Dance thy drunkard, feed to Summer
Hapless end to what doth shown her.

PROCRASTINATION
By
Joe McDonald

Part I:

How often can I keep putting off everything in life that must be done to the point of frustration and despair?  

How often will my work sit and stare at me with the eyes of hungry children always whining their demands for my attention to each task always wanting my full being beyond my own inner abilities and doubt?

How often can I walk past the damaged concrete step on my own house that sneers at me everyday as I walk up to my front door?

How often can I make promises to old friends to get together, celebrate life, and not expect them to wait on my return call of cancelation because of illusionary diseases?

How often can I feign in my backyard the beauty of my roses, sipping white grape while the grass under my bare feet remains brown, coarse, and over grown with dandelions stifling all vegetation?

How often can I pledge my good faith to a worthy cause by ending up watching from the back row as the needs prosper or fail regardless of my lack of motivation?

How often will constant kicking of the can down the yellow brick road be considered the excellence of a long line of Shakespearean resumes?

How often will my lack of courage blind me to opportunities of abundance and force my family to a life of stagnant economic asperity?

How often will I consent to others disrespect of my mastery of skills to the verge of closing my mind to all that is important to dwell in a soup of anger, self-doubts, and ache?

How often will the peeling paint, blistering off of my house like shards of cheese at my wedding feast, augment my anguished indifference finding every physical, spiritual, and any other of a multitude  of “…Why not’s…” festering in my dome of “..Do it tomorrow’s…”?

How often can I rattle my saber of position, roar my battle cry of “Tomorrow” to postpone today’s tasks? Bundling them all into neat piles of future promise completions. All the time smiling a grin of a used car salesman.


How often can I sit on my couch on sunny Saturday mornings enjoying the sun rise? Its beams slowly sliding across the finished oak; warming my unkempt hovel to the boiling point that tuffs of unwanted cat fur dancing over the varnished grain like tumbleweeds in a Sam Pechinpah film. Yet, I sip my morning brew, acknowledging their existence but, my head movies are of other unattended illusions.

How often can my inability to act or respond be accepted by those who expect perfection in all things?

How often can I permit the disappointment of a moment fire the indifference toward the needs of the here and now?

How often will my journey up my front walk be changed from the joy of daffodils and hyacinths filling the air with aromas of lung cleansing delights only to rediscover the pine foliage  are still dressed in the lights of Christmas past?

How often will I put off leading because of failure of seeing the needs of those who need leadership? They cry out for direction but, plead for independence. I use the pleas to drown out the cries.

How often will I have the epiphany of a lifetime only to have inaction and fear
drag it down to the bowels of an enlighten brain ****?



Part II:

I keep plugging in the mechanism of delay to power the animal of the moment.

I blind myself over and over and over and over again again again again to my abilities of now in favor of promises of later.

I smell success in the air every time I do the nows but, the stench of celebration’s to come is easer, sweater, more in line with who I am and not who I want to be.

I hear the praise and accolades of present victories and in time I’ll drag my triumphs out over the gravel road of time until they have lost their luster.

I’ll blindly stare at the tube of adult babysitting, at images of various eye candies trying to escape my own drive to do and yet failing in this as well.

I can’t spit out the bitter taste of the act of putting everything off nor drown it in the wine of determination without repeated reminder that I am drinking from the same cup of vintage to come.

I spend much needed dollars and valued hours gorging myself on self-help aids and assistance. Only they too become part of the beast’s feast of my misused time.

I awake every Monday with dreams of a new but, I’m so accessible to countless distractions. By Friday I face the inevitable doom of looking back over the landscape of a week gone up in the flames of the undone.

I try to grab each day by its throat. Choke out the desired results. Only it offers the slights resistance and I let it go to torment me from its lair growling “…not now, not now, not now…”

I’ll spend time with my mate for life. Half of me is relishing the moments with her. Half is wandering over the tablets of what I haven’t done.

I have mismanaged, misused, balled up, blundered, fouled up, mishandled, muddled, muffed, spoiled, and fumbled the footballs of my life again and again avoiding all that has to be done now driven farther down the boulevard. Constantly stopping at any insignificant store front; staring at juvenile trinkets of distraction.

I have sinned over and over again. I offer prayers to anyone who will listen. Begging for the enlightenment to solve my weakness. “… quia pecccavi nimis cogitatione verbo et in cogitations, et in hoc opera, quod ego facere non, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”



Part III:

Who else do I have to make suffer in confused patience waiting for the promised end results of my superficial excellence?

What has to be done to make me arise from the ash of self doubt, indecision, and fear to conquer this demon within my psyche?

Where are the answers I seek in my time of apathy?

Why has this inferior deity have such a grasp on me?

When! Again, when!!! When will I face this issue and start to find the peace of timely attainment?






(“… that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…”)
Part IV:

I have lived with this for over a half century.
Trying to climb out of the hole of misused time.
Falling back into my penitentiary.
Serving a sentence of intimate crime.


The venting is complete, pity-pats written down.
My confession exposed for all to share, witness.
If this public sacrament exposes me a clown.
Mock away; have your jest. For I could care less.


My Ginsberg rant is to open doors of avowals.
To aid in my cure; in hope start my salvation.
To trust myself; to believe in oneself. I am all.
To look into the morning glass willing a reincarnation.


Only I can face the beast and make it heel.
Down inside I have to find the straight for each day.
Try a new, lighter approach; a new Don Marquis feel.
“…procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday…”




April 2014

Sunny day in June, the tenth to be exact
The horrible day my sister was attacked
Beth was in the house, her friend Mark outside
She was cleaning,he in the yard kept with pride

Beth Anne was on hands and knees scrubbing the floor
When she heard real gunshots, at least she swore
Snuck to the window and peered out with care
On the rocky driveway, saw Mark sprawled out there

Been shot three times in his back,lay in his blood
Beth saw her ex...with a .38 he stood
While terrified, behind the aquarium she ducked
Brad blundered in dressed in hunters camouflage- ****

Her heart hammering in her ears, bursts of short breaths
Saw him through the murky water, planning two deaths
Beth Anne cowered down praying to her dear Lord
He found her, pulled her up by the hair, fired once more

The bullet blew off her ear and traveled on down
Collapsed her lungs, in her blood she would drown
Brad disappeared and the firing just stopped
For Mexico he fled, red ranger with white top

Beth dragged herself the complete length of the rug
Called 911, shed been shot...head ringing from slug
She was determined to live, wouldn't give up the fight
But then she passed out endangering her plight

Came the Greeley police, fire trucks, EMT's
Assessed the situation, perp further he flees
They all worked on Mark, too late he was dead
One smart responder....woman shot in the head

They spreading out rushed the house, found my sis
Beth was unresponsive, victim almost missed
Speeding to Weld County General, sirens blaring
Got her in the ER cut off what she was wearing

O.R. She went with damage extensive
Not much hope, docs and staff apprehensive
For many hours they sawed, pinned, stitched and closed
The ICU threat of infection posed

Her body and face were unrecognizable
Family stood believing the impossible

Appeared an Adonis with blonde hair and blue eyes
Talk of afterlife evidently not lies
Her guardian angel told Beth he was there
Would appear much later, in death they would share

388

Take your Heaven further on—
This—to Heaven divine Has gone—
Had You earlier blundered in
Possibly, e’en You had seen
An Eternity—put on—
Now—to ring a Door beyond
Is the utmost of Your Hand—
To the Skies—apologize—
Nearer to Your Courtesies
Than this Sufferer polite—
Dressed to meet You—
See—in White!

Crosses and troubles a-many have proved me.
One or two women (God bless them!) have loved me.
I have worked and dreamed, and I've talked at will.
Of art and drink I have had my fill.
I've comforted here, and I've succoured there.
I've faced my foes, and I've backed my friends.
I've blundered, and sometimes made amends.
I have prayed for light, and I've known despair.
Now I look before, as I look behind,
Come storm, come shine, whatever befall,
With a grateful heart and a constant mind,
For the end I know is the best of all.

Wednesday morning I woke up from my first night sleeping in the camper, and  I had that  disjointed feeling that comes from unfamiliarity.  I recognized  the interior of the camper, so that was not what was  triggering that closed in feeling that enveloped me, not claustrophobic really, it was more: comforting.  It is hard to put into words that kind of feeling, but as I am supposed to be an aspiring writer ......It would seem to be my responsibility to do so,,  or at least try.
    So as I lay there cradling the warm afterglow of a satisfying night of slumber and with pleasant dreams of…I’m hungry ! I suddenly thought to myself.  No! Actually I am starving, and just one look down at Stormy , lying on the floor and staring at me and  it was more than obvious that he too was hungry..
    “Okay, boy, I know.  I hear you..”
     “All we ate last night was those Fritos wasn’t it?”Stormy just stared at me with those big brown, expectant and hungry eyes..
   “ Sorry boy !  I am new at this.”  I said as I was just  realizing that I was fully clothed, This fact reminded me that I had come into the camper cruiser nine hours earlier, intending to fix me some food, had seen the bed laid out , done while setting up camp hours earlier, so I decided to see how comfortable it could possibly be .
    I remember laying down and  saying to myself, “  this ain’t too bad.”  Looking down at Stormy -closing my eyes- and well , here I am, nine hours later,  starving and being stared at by Stormy .
    .  6:30 AM Wednesday morning- and both of us starving  .   "Man!   Talk about exhaustion.!" I said to the world at large .
    “Just hang in there for a few minutes more  and we  will both have bacon and eggs today....  Okay?”
To which stormy happily  wagged  the whole rear half  of himself in undying gratitude.
     After breakfast I had a cup of coffee in my hands, and a buzz in my head as I sat down in the lawn lounge thingy ( It had even come with the camper) and watched the other people  go about their morning..
     Was this my story--the ever evolving story  of… Come on dude!  I chastised myself,  this is not your mission, to write about camping spots,  and the ever evolving state of one parking spot that                they are occupying.   .  But as I was beginning to slowly realize  ; my story , just might be more elusive than I  had taken time to consider.
      I glanced down at storm to see if he had any insight, an opinion of some great revelation for me,  but he was in his own world; lying there beside me and watching with rapt interest the antics of a pair of foraging gray squirrels as they skipped and be bopped among the branches of a huge white oak;   wherein  Stormy, unlike myself,  saw the big picture,,  all the story he needed was playing out in the branches of that tree.  This tree was his tree ……of life..!
    “Crazy little buggers   ain’t they boy?”  I remarked to him as I rubbed his head and neck , taking away a few precious seconds of his squirrel watching while he looked around me before returning his gaze back to the  acrobatics  of the little be boppers of the tree..  I went back to watching my new neighbors,  for in a sense-that is exactly what this is . Nt much  different from  the cul-de-sac.  I grew up on. ..  With one exception-vital as it is . I mean  that I only have  the imaginary view of these people , not  the  reality  that I had with… But then, I reassess my thought,,  reorganize my pattern as I remember that morning  .
     That crazy day with all the police  and ambulances suddenly appearing in the street..  All the neighbors  having  been bunched up  in curious knots to wonder what was happening at the Angleton’s.
   Like wind swept fire  to a field of tall grass, the rumors began spreading through  the street.
   “He killed her!”  Someone remarked abstractly..
    “Who?”  They all asked in comatose reality.
    “George Angleton” they said, “he killed his wife  and then he killed himself--I think”
    “Whyyyyy?”  They   bleated .
    “Do not know-I heard they had financial problems,  maybe that was it.”  They quoted equivocally.
    “There was always something funny about them.”  The little man said   fumbling the ball
   “Who?”  They all questioned again.
    “Angleton’s…  It was strange, I wouldn’t  let my kids go up there  on Halloween.. and that time he gave all comic books!”  The little man said with an air of superiority.
   “   Why is that?”  They argued in question.
     “You asked me he was trying to lure them kids in.”  He blundered and fell
    “You are nuts!  He was a sweet old man… It had to be… financial”  they persisted..
     “Say what you want-  but I know what I know-and he was weird.”  The little man overstated.
    “You did not even live around here.  That year he gave out comic books-did you?”   Somebody pointed out aggressively.
      “Well.... no,,” the little man sputtered,, “bububut I heard about it..”   The little man  beleaguered now     “So you never even met George!”   Someone accused  ..
     “Not personally; but all  the…” The little man started.
      “Get the hell away from me little man.” the whole crowd expressed in screaming silent looks .

This dull ache started
In the middle of my gut
Spreading
Like an oil slick
Did not spare
My bruised heart
And
Tumultuous brain
Coated
Like perishing penguins
In layers of black
Beside upturned
Prey
Both dying  
The same malady
Tormenting
Prey and
Predator

Your words
Trying to soak
This inky toxin
Resemble
Feeble attempts
To stop
This amoebic monster
Growing
Changing shape
Nevertheless
Spreading
To the far corners
Of a once clean
Calm picturesque
Ocean
Tranquility shattered
By Pipe bursts
Of random speech
That may take
Years to clean
Yet leave a mark

Our relationship
Pure
Until this spill
Dearest
I blundered
Overconfident
In love
And my ignorance
Your feelings
Sensitive
Like the corals
Tarnished now
I am trying
To clean
This unsightly stain
With my tears
And your
Understanding

I know your heart
Large as the ocean
Will soak up
My folly
Erase the blemish
Clear the water
That we may stand
Hands entwined
Like clown fish
And
Sea anemone
Inseparable
After our long
Painful
Separation

She prances the streets, a ballerina in heat snapping finger's in rhyme! Forget thy time, she telephathicly makes her own.

She lives alone, yet roomies become her attire, maiden of dires, dating site's not accommodating thy interest? Pinterest !

A pipe she keeps next to her bed, juicy lipstick, a prideful head,
Yet still her small green bag does not satisfy.. Queen so blind!

Smoke evacuates the old pried windows that are nailed, for ghosts do haunt her, within and outside..

Thoughts of suicide, as riddles she makes up to stay sane, her mascara pounds to thine rain that leaks into her basement sanctuary!!

Addict's she clings to, monsters she speaks to, as her cats keep good company, I know!!!!

An operetic show, a fatalist as me, yet still hoping for whats not there, unruly she dares!!!

Her street lies beyond the ghettos, 515 dover lane ..
On the east side of town where the bullets meet with trains!!

Factory's of grains that make your daily bread, where thy living and thou dead come in between two world's...

Lonesome young girl, no more chariots can you escape, for thou art blundered and unvaped to the cloud animals thou creates!

When we'd stood and wondered
where our lives were going,
not knowing our hearts had blundered
still we waited for the midnight crowing.

We thought we could begin our journey
at the morning's first light,
and when the fires were lowly burning
we had seen that beautiful sight

At light's last waning glow
we realised our folly
and felt love's striking blow.

We fell and neither was sorry
as we were consumed by the falling snow

Alone the room spun
The days war had been won
And though I wished to shed my tears
A princess may never show proof of her fears

Many times I've blundered
Beneath storms thunder
But I'd give my life to the kingdom
To regain their freedom

My arms tied, I'd given up love
My eyes closed, I gave my heart a shove
But a trickster popped in
And gave my world a spin

It was a triangle of death, the valley of hell
Because to which one I loved I couldn't tell
My heart belonged in the hands of a friend
We'd soon be wed, though our love was pretend

The queen would soon lose her throne
And I'd remain , all alone
With a crown to rule upon my head
My mother... Would be dead

Her powers killed her slowly she was thirty nine
Lucky that wouldn't happen with mine
Scolded by the glares of my kin
I wondered when the peace would begin

Slack canvas bends with the first strokes:
brush and paint scar a waiting whiteness.
Others follow of less distinct pressure
but now with an affected swirl
a life emerges.

Colours are selected with random thoroughness,
outlining only what the eye believes it sees.
Shapes conform to break the rules and innovate,
where bright arrays can glide through blundered blobs:
ochre, umber, raw sienna.

Sable is saved for finer life forms
steadfastly fixed in oil.
Tentatively mixtures are blended
to blur the more familiar with
darker and darker hues.

The creator remains anonymous.

I.
White’s imprisoned gray.
A black sole subdues
one red glove with a crunch.
There it will pause, fingerless
until the first thaw.

II.
The sun's amber frown of diminished light
slides down black branches
a blundered slight,
but when it hits the ground, it rides
wonders of uninterrupted white.

III.
Steamy columns of warmth
slip through the crack,
pawed open by blue purrs from his white cat—
a tonic wash, to welcome.
slush-slicked, black boots back

IV.
Nuzzled, from the muzzling of a drowsy-
days-long muslin wrap, brown earth bursts
through what white patchwork's left, to cure
her forbidden tramplers with a slurpy
and black-mouthed, aubade kiss.

V.
Winter’s white makes shallow breaths,
and exhausted she coughs black
complaints about the crushed
green of popped-down bottles,
a cellophane orange cat with a close hold
on his shorted stock of shock-
yellow crumbs, and the assorted other
man-made matter mocking
her color, but never her,
wherever they stay.

It doesn’t come on a horse-drawn carriage.
It doesn’t come as tall, dark, and handsome.
It doesn’t come with a prince’s crown.
It doesn’t come with magic fairy dust.

Forget the chick flicks.
Forget the old school fairy tales.
Forget the Nicholas Sparks novels.
Forget playing M.A.S.H. when you were six years old.

I’m not sure how it works
(Because, trust me, I wish I did).
But this culture has brainwashed our intelligent minds
To writhing pulps obsessed with “love.”
You do not love.
You love to love. And there is a great difference, my dears.
For when you truly love, you don’t feel it.
You do it.

And whoever told you that:
“Immature love says, ‘I love you because I need you.”
Mature love says 'I need you because I love you.’”
…
Well, they have foolishly blundered.
For you don’t “need” to be in love.
Mature love should say, “I love you because I love you,
And I have no explanation for why that is,
But I will always choose to do right by you.”

I don’t have the answer,
So I don’t ask the question.
But I’m not silly enough to believe what the world screams at me.

A lovely Barry Hodges poem

People think that Calais is just a charming port on the flat French coast
Replete with exquisite restaurants patronised by English visitors
Who have crossed the Channel to get a decent meal for once,
And who want to take advantage of the wondrous *savoire vivre francais,
Even though they will get wittily insulted for their English accents.
There is more: the town has some of the finest late 40s architecture
To be found anywhere in the western world, spontaneously thrown up
After la ville ancienne was 95% flattened by the gallant but clumsy Brits
In what is still patriotically referred to as "La Libération".
But there is yet more to this gourmands' and cheap ***** buyers' mecca:
Believe me, I know, I have suffered a grievous and terrible loss there
When I blundered into a cheese shop on the Rue Royale one summer's day.

My companion that day was my dear fifth wife,  Winifred
(a four foot high but stoutly built ***** with a major speech impediment),
And, being attracted from five streets away to Maison Le Merde,
The world-famous fromagerie, by its unearthly overpowering pong,
My dear one, my lovely ****** spouse, dragged me through the door.
Choking back a desire to gag, she started stammering away to M. Le Merde,
Trying to order a couple of hundred grams of Carré de Mort Absolue,
When Mr L.M lost his rag totally and assumed wifey was trying to mock him
(How could one have known Monsieur was the French stuttering champion?)
And so he took out the cleaver he habitually kept behind the counter
To deter English tourists from stealing his cheesy comestibles,
And severed Winny's darling head in a single fell coup de grace
Which left her dramatically shorter than she previously was.

I managed to escape a similar dire fate by running like the clappers
And hiding in a nice toilette publique (femmes) while he stampeded by,
His mighty chopper in his cheese-impregnated Gallic paw.
And when I reported the matter to the gendarmerie, were they sympa?
They were no more helpful than seins sur un taureau fou
And insisted I should pay for the funeral there and then in advance,
Threatening me with a real good thumping dans mes **** should I decline.
Dear God, I shall have to use a different entry port to France next time
(although sur le grapevine I hear Boulogne is a bit of a dump),
But at least there aren't so many ******* would-be refugees.

Playing on the Midnight Bridge

Gyrated at midnight.
Restless spirit.
Atmospheric, ethereal.
Vaguely visible through the smog.
Under the bridge of sighs.
He once cried.
The air infiltrated with wails of despair.
His pain cried louder than his voice.

Noble noose with its own perspective.
His treasured prize had gone.
Slipped as he blundered into night.
Forlorn.
A mistake not turning back.
Bridge became gibbet.
Dropped fast.
And he swung as he hung.
His heart destroyed by disloyal lover
Girlfriend committed greatest treason.
And he hung by Traitor’s Gate.

By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Nights pass dreamless
just as the days do.
Often seamless,
in the absence of you.

Memories stir like a summer storm
upon me in an instant.
In your too familiar form,
and times well spent.

Rain from my eyes
to fall on this bed.
Once to muffle lover's sighs,
and rest your head.

As your hair falls around me
now I see.
Feelings I thought were key,
no more than what you wished to be.

Friends
and then something more.
So here, this is how it ends,
we've got nothing left in store.

Brilliant from the start
one, but now two sundered.
Destined to be apart,
no more love, into which we blundered.